


Latria

by heartstone



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Comfort. . . I Guess, Dol Guldur, M/M, Mild Gore, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-21 18:26:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16581743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartstone/pseuds/heartstone
Summary: Starlight fell from the blackened sky, piercing it in small shimmers like shards of glass, like pale teeth puncturing flesh.***Angmar watches his Master's desperate communion.





	Latria

Starlight fell from the blackened sky, piercing it in small shimmers like shards of glass, like pale teeth puncturing flesh. The stars revealed nothing this night, and they faded, asphyxiated, cold and blue as a long-dead corse in the celestial horror of the bloodied moon. It hung low and glowering, a great brooding eye that took no care in the starlight, that saw not where it dashed itself upon the earth or where its light faded in the void between. And the moon itself showed nothing but transient silhouettes- a feverish scarlet struggling to push through the shadow, sinking rapidly and impaling itself on the point of a spire that crowned the pinnacle of a lantern tower.

This pinnacle rose higher than all the sickly trees, though its outline looked like frayed lace in its ruination. The dead moonlight fell upon it as the streaking of blood, dripping down its roof and along its side, now through the lancet windows that clawed through the weathered volcanic stone. The glass filtered its red hue into colours pallid and wan and at last the light was laid to rest on the floor of the transept below the tower and the shoulders of the figure that there kneeled.

Illuminated with such emaciated light from the unkind heavens and the light from the fires which coiled serpents of shadow upon his Master, Angmar felt a certain familiar despair. Like all the other times, he knew it would not work, and he hid in wait in the corners that the light did not reach. But his kneeling Master, with heavy head and deep prostration, continued his orison, growing now more fervent in the vain hope that this time would be different.

In his left hand his Master suddenly clenched tightly a small talisman, covering it with his right and bowing over it in an irrational protectiveness or a fierce possessiveness- it was difficult to tell which, but Angmar felt the squeeze around it as if it was him being held, and despite his shame, he savored the constriction and the firm warmth which overcame his body in the coldness of the chapel. The words his Master spoke over it sounded to him as though they were said near to him, yet still, they were incomprehensible and fluttered like a frightened pulse and all pleasure from the warmth and firmness he had savored just a moment before left Angmar empty.

A voice once so lovely, which sung soft and enchanting, a sigh in the breeze, a lulling lament, became now harsh and resounded with the crackling of the charred wood in the hanging cressets and the steady _drip drip_ of blood that bespattered the floor. His voice and the blood both flowed sluggishly, slurred but desperate to be heard, thick and black as coal tar. A sob escaped his lips and his words became more violent, and Angmar felt a pull towards him, a hot rod of energy drawing him closer: his Master was calling upon his power and he yielded, for he had no choice.

Spreading within the etched groove of an invocation circle wound the image of a great serpent, and it shimmered around his Master’s kneeling body as his words grew violent, guttural and unnatural. No man could have made those noises, and Angmar watched as his slim frame shook with frustration, unable to control the tremors of such power running through him in such an unstable form. He felt the small hands of his Master around the talisman, trembling, watched the final burst of energy as the circle around his kneeling form glowed faintly, golden and divine.

Yet soon it dimmed and faded, and like all other times his Master fell sprawled onto the floor.

He lay there many moments, a collapsing of black silk, unadorned with rubies or garnets or gold. Angmar nearly moved from his hidden spot to his fallen Master but he felt hands caress the talisman as if they caressed his body instead, and he fell back, knowing the consequences of his spying would be justly unpleasant. Yet he could not help but watch and wait.

If he could not stop his Master from breaking himself then all he could do was be there to pick up the pieces.

Blood had soaked his Master’s robes as his frail body convulsed slightly, yet the blood did not change its colour. He whimpered in anger and defeat, pounding the ground. Angmar averted his eyes, watching the shadows his Master casted instead, the twisting, agonizing shapes he contorted himself into as he tried not to tear at himself in anguish. But soon he composed himself, and on unbalanced feet, hobbled to the altar and its useless sacrifice.

He staggered and fell in the exedra, crumpling like a withered flower, like a widow before the grave of her betrothed, like the light of the stars fading in the void between. Under the massive semi-dome, chipped and cracked and its gilded stone worn, lit by the vast arms of a chandelier, rose the statue of another man, motionless and silent, sitting and looking down upon the fallen at his feet.

Angmar felt the grip around the talisman loosen and release, and he knew it was safe to approach.

Vespertilionid wings unfurled from the back of the statue, the idol, the _God,_ spreading across the wide length of the apse as if in a welcome. Ram horns curled around the length of wild hair, chiseled from black marble but nonetheless seeming luxurious and fine- his Master carved it, after all, and placed it himself on the ebony throne, placed the iron crown upon his brow. There forever he sat, beautiful, bared, unashamed of his physical form which mocked the other Valar, of the shadows that seemed to cover him modestly, of the uncoiled snake nor the feral wolf that lay at his feet.

Yet the statue’s eyes of jet lignite, polished and sad, seemed to gaze down and take notice of the figure which had fallen as it reached out to caress his stone foot and the scars that crossed over it, so much so that the talisman had rolled away from him and lay forgotten. Angmar picked it up, feeling the weight of the gold and its perfect form- it was the only jewelry his Master ever wore anymore, and it sent thrills as he touched it, being so close to his power, to the script that glowed around its circumference.

He listened to the final _drip drip_ of the blood as it drained from the exsanguinated corse of the sacrifice. Even the most chaste, the most youthful of men would not do- it was as Angmar knew in his heart. He tried not to shake with the pain of seeing his Master as such and bent down to replace the talisman on his favored finger- the ring wanted to be reunited with his Master just as he did.

Angmar picked him up. Just as he had done some nights before. Just as he would always be there to do.

Wrapped in black silk his Master was nothing but a skeleton. It took much for him to regain form ever since Númenor, especially with these rituals. He no longer had hair and his face gave the impression of someone most beautiful who had been mummified for many centuries- missing nose gave a gaping look into his skull, sunken eyes which glowed dimly under the cover of thin, sickly eyelids. Yet Angmar only held him closer. He was cold and that was unnatural for him, a Maia of the inferno.

The statue looked on in sadness as Angmar carried him from the room and the heavy doors clinked behind them. There was a final _drip_ on the floor of blood and the circle glew softly under the light of the bloodied moon.

Somewhere in the Void the screaming stopped, if only for a moment. And the Maia felt, if only for a moment, a dreamless peace overcome him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So this really killed me to post because there is more I'd like to do with it, but I just don't have the time or the brain-power at the moment. I'm really sorry I haven't been making much lately, it kills me inside to neglect writing and being apart of this little community :(  
> But I made something! I may not be the most polished or most complete, but it's something! And I'm trying my best to make some time for this and force myself to write! Sometimes muses take too long and you have to force it. . . I wonder if I could summon my muse like Mairon's attempting to summon Melkor- probably not a good idea!  
> Also, I use Angmar to refer to the Witch-King, though his name was likely something different, I didn't really know what else to call him.  
> ***


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